Chapter 163
The topics jumped erratically, his speech rapid—like a colorful butterfly afraid of awkward silences.
Diana leaned against the car window, barely responding. She knew he was covering up, using his specialty—extravagant, meaningless chatter—to patch the hole her single comment had punctured.
The car smoothly entered the Russell Manor grounds. Rupert had been moved back to his own room, attended by a top-tier medical team working in round-the-clock shifts.
Rupert personally carried the wooden box for Diana, escorting her all the way to Rupert's bedroom door.
"Diana, get some rest. You must be exhausted," he said with a grin, the name "Diana" rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.
Diana took the box and nodded. "You should rest too."
She closed the door, shutting out the man still trying so hard to play "Alaric."
The room was quiet except for the steady beeping of monitoring equipment. The air carried a faint mixture of disinfectant and premium room fragrance.
Diana placed the heavy rosewood box on a low table near the head of the bed. The position was conspicuous—visible with just the slightest turn of the head.
She opened the lid. The ivory and metal gleamed in the soft light, emanating a cold, solemn beauty.
She began arranging the instruments, speaking softly as if to herself. "It's said a famous surgeon designed these for his wife who died young, hoping to capture life's final sigh. Unfortunately, he failed."
She picked up a scalpel with intricate rose patterns carved into its ivory handle.
"This blade's design is ergonomically superior—more elegant than many mass-produced tools today. When held, it maximizes wrist stability."
She lifted a tissue forceps next, gently opening and closing it.
"The clamping pressure is perfectly distributed, preventing additional compression damage to tissues. Whoever designed this must have had profound knowledge of anatomy."
She continued introducing each piece, like a museum guide or a child showing off a cherished toy.
"Rupert, how special would it feel to perform surgery on you with these?"
After saying this, she fell silent. She returned each instrument to its place, carefully wiped away her fingerprints, and closed the lid.
With everything in order, she went to wash up, then retired to the small bed on the other side of the bedroom.
The night deepened.
Hours later, Diana opened her eyes in the darkness. Without turning on the lights, she padded silently to the small table.
The box had been disturbed.
She made no comment, simply returning to bed as if nothing had happened.
Early the next morning, she reviewed the previous night's surveillance footage of the room.
In the recording, seven hours and twenty-one minutes had passed between her leaving and returning. Aside from the slow movement of light and shadows, there was no trace of any living thing entering.
The only variable was the person lying in bed, whose vital signs remained as steady as a straight line.
Diana turned off the monitor.
He couldn't resist after all.
He couldn't resist his curiosity, couldn't suppress that innate need for control.
This Rupert—even pretending to be ill, he couldn't bear to remain passive.
Diana took a sip of coffee. The slightly bitter liquid slid down her throat, somehow improving her mood.
---
Several days later, in the laboratory.
"We did it! Diana, we did it!"
Elisa waved a report, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she rushed over to give Diana a big hug. "The Phase Three clinical data shows our modified targeted drug improves neural sheath regeneration efficiency by thirty-seven percent compared to the best medication on the market!"
"And almost zero side effects!"
Diana stumbled back a step from the impact, a rare smile appearing on her face.
Their project aimed to conquer a rare neurodegenerative disease. Elisa handled the clinical and pharmacological aspects, while Diana was responsible for algorithms and model construction.
"This is amazing! I'm treating you to a fancy dinner—the finest restaurant!" Elisa babbled excitedly.
"No need," Diana smiled, shaking her head. "Let's order takeout and eat here. I still have a dataset to run."
Half an hour later, they sat cross-legged on the laboratory floor, eating the simplest dinner from two takeout containers.
After a few bites, Elisa set down her utensils and looked at Diana. "You're a monster, Diana."
It wasn't an insult, but pure admiration.
"Handling the Russell family's complicated situation, outmaneuvering enemies appearing from who knows where, and still finding the focus to conduct research—better than anyone else."
Elisa said sincerely, "If it were me, I'd have had a mental breakdown long ago."
Diana paused, staring at a glistening piece of steak in her container. "Focus is the best defense."
"But you're human, not a machine," Elisa said, watching her. "Sometimes I think you're living too hard a life."
Diana looked up, meeting her friend's concerned gaze.
After a moment of silence, she said softly, "Being caught in this situation, having a friend I can talk to—that's my good fortune."
Elisa blinked, then broke into a wide smile, giving Diana's shoulder a hearty pat. "You're right! So from now on, don't carry everything alone!"
"Your brain can save the world—I'll handle passing you wrenches and ordering food!"
Looking at that bright, sunny smile, Diana felt a corner of the frost in her eyes quietly melt away.
Indeed, in this complex game of chess with its unpredictable twists, having such a pure friendship untainted by ulterior motives was truly her greatest luck.
---
The good days didn't last long.
On the homepage of the prestigious international medical journal [Cell Communications,] a commentary article led by renowned European neuropathologist Professor Jean Armand appeared in the most prominent position.
The title was sharp and eye-catching: #Prometheus's Flame or Pandora's Box? Long-term Risk Assessment of a Novel Neural Regeneration Induction Mechanism.#
When Elisa burst into the laboratory with her tablet, her face was as white as paper.
"Diana, we have a problem!"
Diana was performing a microinjection procedure and didn't look up. "Steady hands."
"I'm not shaking! Look at this!" Elisa thrust the tablet in front of her.
The article was extensive and well-referenced, dissecting everything from molecular structure stability to potential cellular carcinogenic risks.
The core argument was that this theoretical model called "Prometheus," after more than five thousand computer simulations, revealed a fatal flaw in its underlying logic.